


The Hoary Meteor

by TwoWeevils



Category: Spenser Series - Robert B. Parker
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 13:17:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwoWeevils/pseuds/TwoWeevils
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Shut the door,” Hawk said.  “You getting rain all over my fine Corinthian leather.”</p>
<p>“Do the Corinthian cows whine about the rain,” I said. “Are there even cows in Corinth?”</p>
<p>“You got no appreciation for the finer things,” Hawk said.  His smile gleamed through the dim interior of the car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hoary Meteor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mithen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/gifts).



> _In starry flake, and pellicle,_   
> _All day the hoary meteor fell;_   
> _And, when the second morning shone,_   
> _We looked upon a world unknown,_   
> _On nothing we could call our own._
> 
> \--from _Snow-Bound: A Winter Idyl,_ by John Greenleaf Whittier
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my live-in beta and finder of perfect story titles, Kweevil!

Some days, Boston looked really good in the rain. On days like that, the stoplights made the wet asphalt glitter and made the office towers shine like they’d been dipped in quicksilver. I thought about how pretty rain could be as it dripped inside the collar of my Brooklyn Dodgers 1947 replica jacket.  The unlovely rain beaded on the white leather sleeves and soaked the fancy white felt “B” sewn on the front.  Susan Silverman had given me the jacket on Father’s Day the previous year for reasons I had yet to fathom.  Over the years with Susan, I’d learned it was sometimes best to just accept that the impulse of the moment was all the reason she ever needed. The rain was very wet. I couldn’t feel my toes.

I thought about Susan and the way her eyes held a twinkle of secret amusement when she thought she was being clever. Since she was in fact, brilliant, the twinkle was there a lot.  I thought about the ‘47 Brooklyn Dodgers and Jackie Robinson putting on a jacket like this one.  1947 was a tough year for the Dodgers, but I’d bet they didn’t spend a lot of time standing in the rain waiting to catch a city employee _in flagrante_ with his trash cans.

A maroon-colored Lincoln did a tight U-turn and pulled up at the curb in front of me. Hawk leaned across the bench seat and popped the passenger door.  “Get in,” he said.

I squinted across the street. Odds were the rain would keep my quarry from shoveling his walk, shingling his roof, or otherwise revealing that his workman’s comp claim was bogus. And there would be another garbage pick-up next week. 

“Shut the door,” Hawk said.  “You getting rain all over my fine Corinthian leather.”

“Do the Corinthian cows whine about the rain,” I said. “Are there even cows in Corinth?”

“You got no appreciation for the finer things,” Hawk said.  His smile gleamed through the dim interior of the car.

I wiggled my toes inside my wet Nikes to get the circulation going and tossed my wet ball cap onto the back seat.  There was baroque music playing on the car stereo. I didn’t know the name of the piece.

“You know, I was working back there,” I said, as Hawk took a left onto Tremont.

He cut his eyes toward me. “You privileged folk never appreciate when someone doing you a favor.”

“There I was, detecting with immense skill and heroism, and you just ride up and drag me away.”

“Look to me like you standing in the rain freezing your nuts off,” Hawk said.

I wiggled my toes again. My socks were wet. “One does not preclude the other. I was on the verge of capturing a dangerous offender.”

“Sure, babe. Malingering be a serious a threat to public safety,” Hawk said.

“It could be a gateway crime.”

“I believe that’s how Tony Marcus launched his criminal empire,” Hawk said. “You should ask him about that.”

“Remind me to put a note in his Christmas card,” I said. 

The rain seemed to ease up for a moment, then it turned to snow.  We’d had a big dump of snow the week before and the rain had left the drifts looking pockmarked and icy. As we drove, the light snow turned into thick white flakes. Hawk wasn’t bothered by the rapidly diminishing visibility. Not much of anything bothered Hawk. The strongest emotion I’d ever seen Hawk express was mild dismay. And the level of dismay was the same whether his champagne wasn’t adequately chilled or someone was pointing a gun at him.

“Where exactly are we going,” I said. “Not that the pleasure of your company isn’t enough of a reason to drive through a snowstorm, but I suspect that I may be underdressed for the occasion.” Hawk was wearing a charcoal wool overcoat. His pants were black with a faint blue pinstripe.  His black Chelsea boots had a mirror-like finish.  They were probably made in Italy and cost more than I paid in rent every month. They went nicely with the shine on Hawk’s shaved head.

“I got us a gig,” Hawk said.  “Man say it a two-man job. I say I better than two men, but he insist.”

“Not many people are insistent with you. At least,” I said, “they don’t insist very forcefully.”

Hawk shrugged slightly. “I feeling magnanimous. Figure you could use the bread.”

“The insurance company’s giving me 15 per cent of what they recover if I can prove this guy’s faking his back injury.”

“Fifteen per cent of shit is still shit,” Hawk said. “Besides, I preventing your untimely demise from boredom.”

“There’s that,” I said.

Hawk looked me up and down and shook his head. “White leather sleeves?”

“Susan gave me this jacket,” I said. “Father’s Day present.”

“Since you ain’t nobody’s daddy, it ever occur to you that it might be a joke,” Hawk said. “Why the B gotta be so big?”

“Jackie Robinson wore a jacket like this.”

“Well, that just prove it a joke,” Hawk said. “Dress a brother up in a silly coat so whitey can point and laugh.”

“The whole team wore them in 1947,” I said. “Not just Jackie Robinson.”

“People be laughing at the whole team.”

“Solidarity,” I said.

“Silly white leather sleeves,” Hawk said.

We were stopped at a traffic light a block from my apartment. At least, I thought that’s where we might be, but with the snow coming down like it was, I couldn’t be sure.

“What’s wrong with white leather sleeves,” I said. “I seem to recall you wearing a double-breasted white leather suit in the early days of our acquaintance.”

“That suit bespoke.”

“Be what?”

“Bee-spoke,” Hawk said. “Custom made to my exact measurements by a highly-skilled craftsman.”

“You catch an episode of School House Rock?”

“Just because I a thug don’t mean I ain’t literate,” Hawk said.

I reached for my cap from the backseat as Hawk parked by the fire exit at the back of my apartment building. “A gentleman and scholar,” I said. “Renaissance man.”

“Exactly,” Hawk said. “Now let’s go up and see if you got anything less honkie to wear.”

 

***

 

I wore my navy suit, a white shirt Susan had made me buy from Turnbull & Asser when we were in London, a maroon tie, and my Browning in a shoulder rig that only slightly impaired the line of my jacket.  On our way back out of my apartment, a score of women undressed me with their eyes. I considered having new business cards printed that identified my profession as “Handsome Devil.”

The job Hawk had signed us up for was with a small, rabbit-like man named Lawson who was in the diamond trade. He had a consignment of uncut stones that he had arranged to sell.  Where the diamonds came from, who the buyer was, why Lawson couldn’t hire help from a regular armored security firm, and why we had to dress like male models to do the job were details Hawk said I shouldn’t trouble myself with.

“Forewarned is forearmed,” I said.

“Relax, babe,” Hawk said. “You think they throw anything at us we can’t handle?”

 “Heavy artillery. Nukes. Angry housewives in flowered housedresses.”

“If there’s housewives, you on your own.”

We met Lawson in the bar at the Four Seasons.  He wore a white dinner jacket and a black bow tie. Hawk introduced me and Lawson twitched his nose at me. Probably jealous of my tie.

“Now, Mr. Spenser,” Lawson said. “Do you understand your role?”

“I think I’ve got the role down and I’ve learned my lines,” I said. “But what’s my motivation?”

Lawson blinked rapidly three or four times. “I collect you are attempting humor. Please do not.” He turned to Hawk. “When you told me you had someone in mind as a second man, I assumed it would be another black, like you.”

“Ain’t nobody black like me,” Hawk said. “Spenser almost as good as me, even though he on the pale side.”

Sighing at the inability of the hired help to maintain its gravity, Lawson led us to his suite on the eighth floor.  It would have a great view of the Public Garden if it weren’t for the snow.  For the third time, Lawson briefed us on our mission. He would remove the diamonds from the wall safe in his suite and we would walk him down to the Governor’s Room. We would then stand around looking menacing while he completed the transaction with his buyer. When he had payment in hand, we’d all troop back to his suite where we would be paid a ridiculous sum and go on our merry way.

“How does he know we won’t rob him ourselves,” I said.  

Hawk appeared to be asleep, leaning against one of the gold-and-cream papered walls in the sitting room part of the suite while Lawson got the diamonds. “He don’t,” Hawk said. “But he heard I is a man of my word, so he taking a chance.”

“What about me?”

“He tell me to kill you,” Hawk said. “If you look like you getting any ideas.”

Lawson came back to the sitting room. His hands were empty, but there was a small lump in his jacket pocket.  It caused his right lapel to sag a little.  Lawson seemed upset about that and spent some time at the mirror trying to get the jacket to lay right.

When he was satisfied, we left the suite and took the elevator to the second floor. Hawk had a fireman’s key for the elevator, so we went all the way down without stopping to pick anyone else up. Resourceful.

We managed to make it through the corridor and past the other function rooms without being set upon by armed thugs or attacked by ninjas. A sign at the door welcomed us to a reception for a local congressman, sponsored by a select group of local businessmen.

Hawk took point while I formed the rear guard as we entered the room. There were about 150 guests, mostly men who thought they were very important and women who were in fact very decorative.  There were also a number of armed thugs.

We moved through the crowd slowly, with Lawson greeting people nervously. The people who spoke to Lawson also looked nervous, but mostly because Hawk tended to have that effect.  Waiters accosted us with trays of domestic champagne and _pâté d'escargot avec beurre d’argentine_ served on Ritz crackers. Classy.

“Seem to you like a lot of firepower in this room,” I said to Hawk.

Hawk’s eyes never stopped scanning the crowd as he answered, “No angry houswives, though.”

“But possibly some heavy artillery stashed under the buffet tables,” I said.  

Lawson “tsk’d” at me.  I shrugged. Clearly my whiteness was a handicap when it came to avoiding attempts at humor.

The Governor’s Room was wedge-shaped, with walls angling out from either side of the entry. Buffet tables draped in white skirts lined one wall.  A bar with a scattering of small tables and chairs occupied the other. The curved back wall was made of windows and overlooked the Public Garden.  It would be a pleasant place to become comatose at a conference on a spring day.  Right now, the windows were opaque with blowing snow.

“Lot of local celebrities here,” Hawk said.

I nodded, flashing a wink and a smile at a well-dressed guy named Leonard who killed people for Tony Marcus.  Desmond Burke of the Irish crime family Burkes, sat at one of the tables near the bar drinking whiskey with Fix Farrell, of the political fixer Farrells.

Lawson worried his lower lip with his teeth as we neared the windows.  “I see my buyer,” he said. “Please remain alert.”

We closed in on an enormous, red-faced man with small, piggy blue eyes and a thinning blond buzz cut.  Possibly, his hair wasn’t actually thinning, but the fat around his skull made the hair seem sparse.  He looked like Goldfinger from the James Bond movie and I wondered if he might explode at any moment. With him was a small blonde woman of about forty with expensive highlights and a dress that appeared to be made of eelskin.

Hawk and I took up positions that allowed us to watch the  room and watch Lawson while he conducted his business. Goldfinger's bulk shielded their actions from the rest of the room.  Lawson handed him a small bag.  Goldfinger handed it to the woman, who pulled several stones from the bag and rolled them in her palm with her thumb.  She nodded and poured the stones back in the bag and slipped it into her purse.  Then she handed Lawson a leather satchel.  Lawson unzipped the bag, fingered the contents and zipped it back up.

“Let’s go,” he said.  Lawson clutched the satchel in front of him and tried to look nonchalant as he scampered through the crowd to the doorway. 

He almost made it.

As we moved toward the bottleneck entrance, the crowd thickened. Hawk and I each grabbed one of Lawson’s arms and shouldered our way ahead, looking above the guests’ heads to head off any armed thugs or ninjas.  We didn’t expect a threat from below.

Something small and fast with long brown hair hurtled into Lawson from the side, tore the satchel from him and darted back into the Governor’s Room. Hawk grabbed a handful of of the hair, but ended up with a wig dangling from his fist as the thief barreled forward. Hawk took off into the crowd while I shouted at Lawson to go back to his suite. 

The reception attendees seemed vaguely aware that some kind of disturbance was taking place, but mostly they guzzled free drinks and ate _pâté_.  I saw the congressman, surrounded by his adherents, point at Hawk as he passed.  Farrell and Burke continued to sip whiskey and discuss the fate of the western world while Leonard smiled at one of the decorative women and shot me with his forefinger as I went past.

A fire exit door opened and an alarm bell blared. I saw Hawk plough through the door. I followed him out and down the fire stairs to an outside door. The thief ran across Boylston toward the Public Garden.  Hawk was almost on him and I put on a burst of speed to catch up, narrowly avoiding two taxis and floral delivery van.

It had been snowing steadily for about four hours. It was deep enough to cover my previously pristine cordovans and soak the hem of my pants. Under the snow was icy slush.  For the second time that day, my socks were wet and my toes were going numb.

All three of us vaulted the iron railing and darted around trees heading north toward the pond.  It was dark despite the streetlights. Although I ran almost every day, a nice jog along the path in Nikes doesn’t really prepare you for slogging through wet snow in shoes with no traction. Hawk was doing better than I was, his Chelsea boots having treads.

As the thief reached the clearing, Hawk made a flying tackle and they both went down in the slush.  I skidded to a stop next to them.  The thief was struggling under Hawk’s weight.  Since the guy looked to weigh about 110, I didn’t think Hawk needed my help to subdue him.

One fist in the thief’s collar, Hawk rolled to his feet and jerked the thief upright.  As usual, Hawk did all of this without any seeming effort. Other than the wanton violence done to his pinstripe suit by the snow and slush, Hawk looked perfectly serene.

The leather satchel lay on the ground at the thief’s feet.  I stooped to pick it up when a voice said, “Freeze or I’ll put a bullet in your ass.”

“We already frozen,” Hawk said.

I overbalanced, slipped, and fell on my ass. Happily, the guy with the gun decided this didn’t constitute a clear and present danger, so he didn’t shoot.

There were two of them. As is often the case with hired muscle, one of them was very big and the other, the one with the gun, was small and wiry. The big guy wore a red and black lumberjack coat and a black watch cap. His partner wore a fitted black ski jacket that went well with the 9mm Glock in his hand.

“Take off, kid,” the wiry one said and the thief, who was in fact, a kid of about thirteen, wriggled free of Hawk’s grasp and took off back toward Boylston.

The big guy didn’t have a gun. Or if he did, he hadn’t drawn it.  Probably thought we’d be petrified by his body mass.

The wiry guy spoke again. “Okay, we’re going to do this nice and easy and nobody gets shot.” He took a couple of steps closer to where I sat with icy mud penetrating my shorts. 

He jerked his chin toward me and the big guy moved to retrieve the satchel while the wiry guy covered Hawk and me with his gun. At the best of times, it's hard to effectively cover two people with one gun. In the dark, with one guy on the ground and the other standing, it takes a significant degree of optimism.

The big guy bent to pick up the satchel, effectively shielding Hawk from the Glock. I kicked the wiry guy in the knee and used the momentum as I got my feet under me to hit him hard in the diaphragm with the heel of my right hand and snatch the gun from him with my left.

“Common mistake people make with guns,” I said as the wiry guy curled up in the slush and tried to breathe. “You get too close and someone can relieve you of it.”  I checked the safety and stuffed the Glock in the small of my back. 

Hawk had taken the big guy out with a knee to the side of his head as he bent to pick up the satchel.  He lay unconscious at Hawk’s feet with a kind of blissful smile on his face.

“My shorts are soaked with icy mud,” I said. “And my Turnbull & Asser shirt is ruined.”

Hawk’s smile flashed in the dim light. “But you ain’t dead of boredom.”

He was right.

 

***

 

“Who do you think those guys were,” I said. 

“Just some cheap hired thugs,” Hawk said.

We had appropriated the Garden Suite after Lawson gave us our cut of the money and hopped back to his rabbit hole. Now we were clean, dry, and warm in a pair of fluffy white Four Seasons robes with matching terry cloth slippers. I sat in a wing chair by the fireplace with a glass of Scotch. Hawk was stretched out on the couch drinking Tattinger from the bottle.  If I had previously harbored illusions about Hawk’s ability  to look menacing in a fluffy white robe, they had been thoroughly shattered.

 “I thought we were hired thugs.”

“No, babe,” Hawk said. “We very costly hired thugs. It pays to insist on the very best.”

I shifted in my chair.  “I believe I have a contusion on my left buttock. My career as a costly hired thug may be at an end.”

“What you want me to do,” Hawk said. “Rub it for you?”

“No thanks,” I said. “I’m opposed to miscegenation.”

“How about I fix you an ice pack?”

“No,” I said. “But I’ll be filing a workman’s comp claim and you better pay up.”

“Malingering,” Hawk said. “Next thing you be giving Tony Marcus a run for his money.”

I sipped my Scotch and watched the flames dance over the logs in the fireplace. “No,” I said. “I haven’t got the wardrobe to be a criminal mastermind.”

“That a fact,” Hawk said.  He finished the champagne and stuck the empty bottle neck down in the ice bucket. “What do you think about sending down for more champagne and a mess of shrimp?”

“We’d be fools not to,” I said.

So we did.

~~~~~~


End file.
